


Second Gator

by bible



Category: JUDGE EYES: 死神の遺言 | Judgment, 龍が如く | Ryuu ga Gotoku | Yakuza (Video Games)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Hamura Kyohei, Character Study, Complicated Relationships, Creampie, Felching, Frenemies, Love Hotels, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2021-01-16 22:34:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21278837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bible/pseuds/bible
Summary: “Besides, what life is left for you now? At this point, what would avoiding prison do? You’ve fucked up too much to be free.”“I don’t know,” Hamura says, dragging his spoon over the icing of his cake, and makes a show of licking it off, “Maybe I’d like to go to a few clubs, is all.”The desire is so precious. Yagami can never despise Hamura, no matter how much he tries. “…Well, we’ve got some time.”





	Second Gator

**Author's Note:**

  * For [carriejack03](https://archiveofourown.org/users/carriejack03/gifts).

> the game's been out for a while now but there are still huge fat big dick spoilers here, within the first paragraph so like
> 
> if you haven't gotten to the finale please no read
> 
> this takes place b/w hamura's confession and the trial

It was a begrudging arrangement, mourning together. Hamura’s black coat—an infamous image, now, that hooded reaper-esque thing made of plastic—hangs on the doorknob of Yagami’s office. It’s slick with rainwater and drips coolly in a puddle on the floor. Beneath it, Hamura wore a black funeral suit. Yagami changed into his own.

There’s no hatred here, standing in front of the portrait of Matsugane that Yagami had. It wasn’t the professional image at the actual funeral, but rather the photograph Yagami kept of himself bracketed by Genda and Matsugane. It was the only physical picture of him he owned, and it didn’t feel right to prop up his phone beside the array of flowers and the candles, the burning incense pungent with lavender.

Yagami does his best to recite the sutra the priest had at the funeral for Hamura. Hamura sits in front of the small arrangement, head bowed. His hands are on his knees, clutching the cloth of his slacks tightly. His shoulders are bunched tight around his neck, a tension he has never seen in Hamura before, always so self-assured or defeated; never so wound-up.

He looks older than ever before.

For a while, Yagami watches him. He has nothing more to say, but Hamura stays with his head bowed, knuckles white. His mouth shapes words he can’t hear. Yagami doesn’t move away, but he sits down beside their little array of flowers and memorabilia. It isn’t much: just a bouquet of hyacinths that had been on sale, a little aged and wilted, and a variety of Matsugane’s belongings that had fallen into Yagami’s hands. A ceramic tea set, a deck of Hanafuda cards, a lucky omamori from a trip to Yūtoku Inari Shrine whenever Yagami had turned eighteen. Hamura had brought more violent belongings, reminding them both of the role of a yakuza that existed within such an incredible father figure. (Yagami never let himself forget who Matsugane was, but he could pretend there was no criminal association whenever he thought of him sipping coffee in his neat, pinstriped suit, looking over Yagami’s homework.) A dagger, its jade handle engraved with the clan’s name. Brass knuckles he’d given him, whenever Hamura had started boxing.

Eventually, Hamura pries his head out from where it’s ducked low, and he stares at Yagami. Those pin-needle pupils, always so hateful, have filled out, softened, within those Roppongi-light irises. There’s something soft in his face now, a strange, defeated type of kindness. Yagami realizes that it’s because there’s a film of tears set over his eyes, balancing precariously over the line of thin, ink-swipe black lashes.

Jesus. He didn’t know Hamura was capable of crying.

“Hamura—”

Before Yagami can say anything more, Hamura’s lips twitch up, spread wide, his large, white, fang-like teeth set in a rictus of a trembling grin. With this unnerving smile, the first tear rolls down Hamura’s cheek, and he reaches out and catches Yagami’s wrist in his hand. His palm is still cold, stiff from the weather outside.

“Stupid bastards are gonna pay,” Hamura says, his voice unsettlingly calm despite the way barely-concealed sobs wrack his shoulders, “All of them, Ta-Bo. Every single one. Shono, every stupid fuck that dabbled in AD-9—and especially _Kuroiwa_.”

He spits his name like an expletive.

“No amount of money, no reputation… is worth _this_,” Hamura gestures towards their small funeral service with his free hand. The other clings to Yagami’s wrist so hard the bones might creak.

Yagami’s hand goes to his. For a second, he’s tempted to pry it off.

Instead, he just splays his fingers over the cords standing stiffly on the back of Hamura’s hand. Smooths his thumb over the skin.

Hamura looks so old, so tired.

_You had a part in this_, he wants to snarl, _This wouldn’t have happened if it weren’t for _you_, Hamura. You’re not innocent in this._

But he knows that already.

Outside, it begins to rain lightly. It might freeze.

“We’ll make it right, Hamura,” Yagami says, his hand still rubbing soothing circles over his skin, “Just work with me.”

Hamura lets go of his wrist and says, with an immediate calmness, all that suave apathy back in no time, “Sure, pal. You’re gonna have to school me on law a bit—I’ve never been in a courtroom before.”

*

Sitting at Café Mijore reminds Yagami of one of Shintani’s last meetings with him, and that phantom memory induces a gloom in him that isn’t tampered by the slice of matcha cake he’s ordered. Hamura sitting where Shintani once sat seems invasive, as though he opened the coffin at Shintani’s funeral and found Hamura, alive and well, staring back at him, coddled among the satin.

Hamura neatly saws off the tip of his cake with the side of his spoon, then dips it in his coffee. The pastry soaks up the liquid and he brings it to his mouth, eyes set on Yagami’s scattering of case files. They’ve been looking over it all day, and the sun outside has dipped past the horizon of the buildings, casting everything in an evening glow.

“…That’s when you’ll play the recording,” Yagami says. His voice is soft and worn with exhaustion.

“I get it,” Hamura says, impatient, bringing the cup to his lips. Particles of the cake float on the surface of the coffee, rich and sweet, and catch on his thin upper lip. Yagami finds himself wanting to lick it off. It’s an inappropriate thought, but it’s not like he and Hamura don’t have history together of that nature.

This is not the right place.

“You seem done,” Yagami says, shuffling the papers into their neat folder. He’s usually all for digital copies, but Hoshino like having his stuff in print. This is for him, too. “And so am I. We’ll keep talking about this tomorrow.”

Hamura doesn’t say much, just raises his brows and nods. He’s being so obedient, so scholastic. It’s cute almost, the way he’s been drained of all that snobbery and ego. If only it had come under different circumstances.

“What are you thinking about?” Yagami asks, batting a curly piece of hair away.

“It’ll sound selfish.”

“That’s nothing new. Why should I care?”

Hamura hums, a low sound. He reaches over and pushes his palm, which smells of freshly roasted coffee and lavender incense, over Yagami’s forehead. Then he slicks his hair back, pushing the fringe aside. The touch makes Yagami’s teeth set together, both fearful and aroused. He never knows what kind of touch Hamura will bring to him, what kind of passion motivates it. He could easily be in for another fight, now.

Seems that it’s neither sexual nor cruel, though. Just fond, affectionate.

Maybe he’s trying to fill in the spaces Matsugane left behind.

“You should slick your hair back for the trial.”

“No way,” Yagami scoffs, “I’m all about comfort if I can get it.”

Hamura’s lips twitch in a half-smile. There’s not much humor behind it.

“I’m thinking about my dwindling freedom. I’m sure, after the trial, I’m behind bars for the rest of my life, yes?”

“As you should be,” Yagami says, curt and unempathetic.

“I’m not thinking about running, if that’s what you’re assuming. It’s just—hmm.”

“Tell me.”

“I’ve spent so much of my life climbing the proverbial family ladder. Even when yakuza go to prison, there’s usually someone to take the fall, a life afterwards, a waiting list to greet you when you get out. You know that your time spent behind bars is not for nothing. But for all my hard work, there’s hardly anything left of that little family I tried to make something out of. And so, this is it. This is what I have left: my last years, in a cell. Matsugane gone, and that tiny Tojo Clan family forgotten by time for everything but the slightest involvement in the AD-9 scandal.”

Now, a shot of sympathy goes through Yagami. The words are almost suicidal.

Still, he can’t soften up on him.

“I get it. You have your ideals. You still violated the law and impeded on the lives of many for that purpose of honor. Sure, you’re an old-school yakuza, trying to embed yourself in the traditions of a more noble past, but you did so much wrong in getting to that point. I can’t blame you for wanting a better life for the clan, but your power struggle overtook _everything_. Whatever you’re going to experience for the next few years is what Okubo has already experienced—for doing _nothing_.”

Hamura stares at him, icemilk eyes unreadable.

“Besides, what life is left for you now? At this point, what would avoiding prison do? You’ve fucked up too much to be free.”

“I don’t know,” Hamura says, dragging his spoon over the icing of his cake, and makes a show of licking it off, “Maybe I’d like to go to a few clubs, is all.”

The desire is so precious. Yagami can never despise Hamura, no matter how much he tries. “…Well, we’ve got some time.”

*

As Hamura clutches Koro-Nyan, in pink, he bats his eyes a few times, thick lashes catching tears that glitter on the surface of his red-rimmed eyes and lets out a sob.

Yagami stays hunkered over the UFO Catcher.

“Emotional today, huh?”

He can’t blame him. Hamura’s dealing with a lot. He’s always thought of him as if being in the throes of some stasis, an unshakable egoist that was power-hungry, cruel. But ever since Matsugane was shot in front of him, there was something in that stoic exterior that cracked like fine porcelain. A ripple of hurt went through Hamura, and somewhere in that split of emotion, Yagami saw a human being.

It’s odd to confront Hamura like this. But he’s changed for the better, Yagami thinks. As much as—in his twenties—he loved Hamura’s conceitedness, the way he’d smirk at him as he pinned him down and fucked him until his eyes rolled back, Hamura now seems less like a fuckable caricature or some money-hungry villain.

If it’s grievance, he gets it. But Yagami thinks it may just be fear, manifesting itself in tears and uncharacteristic exhaustion.

Hamura squishes Koro-Nyan tight, its cube-shaped body flattening in on itself. Then he lets go and watches it unfurl.

“When I said a club, I didn’t mean Club Sega.”

“I’m not going to a nightclub with you, Hamura-san,” Yagami says, turning away from the claw that dangles limply, unadorned by any other prize. All he’s gotten is Koro-Nyan, and now it’s Hamura’s. There’s a sad reconciliation on Yagami’s part that soon Hamura will be in prison, without his plush.

He’ll have to bring it with him when he’s visiting. But who knows? Maybe by then Hamura will be hateful again. This fleeting tenderness is nice, but it’s not what he’s used to. Yagami doubts it’ll last. You can’t change Hamura, who’s been steeped in crime for over fifty years.

He wonders about his origins.

No one becomes a yakuza because he wakes up one day and thinks organized crime would be fun.

What circumstances pushed him into this line of work?

Before he can get too sensitive, he closes his eyes and listens to the tinny arcade music, the sounds of buttons clacking, and pictures Okubo’s face in place of Hamura’s downcast eyes, imagines Okubo’s cuffed hands in place of Hamura’s aged ones, cuticles caked with old, browning blood, clutching the cat.

“Can we talk about something sort of intense?” Yagami asks, opening his eyes. Spots of static twinkle in his vision as Hamura comes back into clarity, the aura preceding a migraine. He must have been shutting his eyes pretty tightly.

“As if we haven’t been doing that already.”

Yagami leads him to the booth of _Kamuro of the Dead_. Hamura looks out-of-place; too old for kiddie arcade games he didn’t grow up with. He seems cramped in the booth, the black pleather cushioning them, the screen wide for full zombie attack induced terror. Hamura’s lips twitch, half-amused by the start screen that displays a variety of monstrosities leaking blood and flaking off rotted flesh.

As Yagami rolls his quarters into the change slot, he asks him, “How’d you become a yakuza?”

“What do you mean? I participated in sakazuki just like everyone else.”

“No, I mean, what led you down the path?”

He raises the handheld gun acting as the controller and points it at the screen. The noises of bursting guts and cries of the undead and wet, gory sounds drown out their voices from outside. As such, Hamura feels slightly comfortable opening up to Yagami. At this point, what is there to lose? His reputation?

Settling back into the seat, Hamura counts the spots on Koro-Nyan, and realizes he’s a die.

“What’s the usual assumption? Growing up in a street gang, abusive parents, a runaway, a foster home?” he scans his eyes over Yagami; not that he can see the once-over in the dark, “An orphan? I had none of that. In fact, I was so deprived of anything at all, Ta-Bo, that all of those things might be preferable. I had my family, and I had my home, and I never left it. I don’t expect you to shed a tear for me, you see. I don’t expect you to find an explanation as to why I became the way I am. I suppose you’re trying to justify your hatred, the way that those in the field of law tend to do. Motives and all that. I get it. But like I said, I suppose the root of my behavior is _deprivation_. You don’t need to be a genius to know I’ve never been easily contained, that I don’t obey authority well.

“We had a pet alligator. My family—we’re from Kyushu, if I remember correctly—we had a pet alligator. Now, I can’t tell you anything about these breeds, anything about species of reptilians at all. I don’t even know if an alligator is a reptilian, do you?”

“Yeah, I think they’re reptiles.”

“Well, it lived in these walls with us. You don’t keep an animal that big in a cage or even a home, you know. It wasn’t supposed to grow as big as it did, apparently. My mother got it at a mall, she said—I had never been to one, because I’d never been let out of the house before. But she had grown so attached, when my father suggested giving it to a zoo because it was just too large, she wouldn’t stop screaming and crying for days. She just draped her modelesque little body over this monster’s back and held its neck while wailing, like _she_ was a child having a tantrum, not me. My father never denied the crazy bitch anything. And I hope you don’t mind me calling her a ‘bitch.’ I know you love women, Ta-Bo, and although I can’t imagine _why_, I try to keep my misogyny at bay for your sake. But woman or man, she was a _bitch_.

“Well, anyway, we kept the goddamn thing. And it grew bigger and bigger. My father broke down the walls between my bedroom and the bathroom so it’d have more room. It didn’t matter that I had no privacy, because no one had ever seen me besides my mother and father, anyway. If you’ve ever been to Kyushu, you know it gets humid in the summer, and we have rather mild winters. The home slowly became the tropics. We replaced the lights with heating UV lamps, or some shit, and it made everything this puke-ish, creepy yellow color. Have you ever been to those amusement parks with jungle themed rides? With fake palm trees and low, wet looking lights and animatronic animals teeming in the flora and fauna? That’s what our home became. It was hell, let me tell you. The rainforest, I swear, always warm. I didn’t sleep with blankets anymore, and my bed was replaced with a tatami mat, which was then replaced with this marsh-like substance that I can’t describe. It simulated grass, I suppose, but it was always wet and cool. Easier to sleep on for me. I don’t even know where we got it. I was naked most of the time, because, again, why wear clothes if no one saw me? It was too hot for it, too. But I was angry. I watched TV a lot in those days, because I couldn’t read—didn’t learn ‘til I was about sixteen, you know—and because I didn’t go to school. And I saw the humans of the real-world wearing clothes and looking good, living without alligators in their home. I never even found it strange, the fact that we kept this creature around.

“I had been instructed by my father (a regular, well-adjusted salaryman, might I add), to always crawl on my belly around the gator. He said it ‘didn’t like being looked down on.’ But I had been watching some sitcom, and there was a boy my age, about ten, and I’d never seen him crawl around like I did. I wanted to be like that. He was stylish, with a neat gakuran, and well-styled hair, and tan skin. As I’d never been in the sun before, I was sickly pale. He slicked his hair back, like you used to. He had a nice home and he was very smart; a little snobbish, though. But he didn’t have to look at the crusty, silver skin of a gator, with teeth that glinted in yellow low lights, with bad breath. He walked with pride. So, I attempted to simulate him. I began dressing myself in the few outfits I had, usually a pair of black pants and this bright yellow sweatshirt with Anpanman on it, and I began walking upright when the gator was around. I cut off my hair which had been long before then, with a kitchen knife.

“This didn’t upset my parents at first, but my mom was warning me after a while. Telling me to stop ‘acting like I wasn’t a pet.’ I suppose that’s how they thought of me. A pet. It wasn’t that they were cruel, but I certainly wasn’t a human. I was a house cat.”

Hamura rolls Koro-Nyan over and over. Yagami had racked up an extraordinarily high score, so focused on the story that his hands moved for him. There’s a strange, worried look on his face. As if he actually cares about Hamura.

“Now, I suppose you’re wondering why I never just _tried_ to leave. I suppose it didn’t occur to me that I could. I can’t explain to you the inner workings of my mind forty years ago, but I had never been outside, and while I knew my father and mother left the house, I supposed they were simply in other rooms that I had no interest in. I was a shockingly incurious child. Maybe that’s why they treated me as a pet. I have a suspicion I was sedated regularly, in some manner. Probably during meals. I remember sleeping a lot, at all hours of the day. God, I wish I could smoke in here.

“Well, I remember waking up. It was September, one of the hottest days of the year, and I was covered in sweat. I was pretty regularly covered in sweat around this time of year, but for some reason, it _infuriated_ me that day. I was sick of being sticky, sick of living in a swamp, jealous of the rich child on TV who took walks to his private school in Hokkaido. And I was fucking sick of that gator, always crawling around, slow and confined, miserable looking, making me feel guilty with its yellow, sad eyes.

“I put on my clothes, and I walked up to my mother and I said, ‘I’m going to put him down. He’s sad. And I’m sad. He doesn’t like living, anymore.’ Something like that, at least. Well, she went berserk on me. That wailing came back, that real, terrifying crying in which I knew something awful was happening. There was an implication that if I were to kill the alligator, she was going to kill _me_. And while I hardly had anything to live for, well, I didn’t want that. I was a sad, bored child, but is there ever truly a suicidal ten-year old?”

“I felt bad for the gator. Once a year, it’d have these terrible fits. You ever have those days where there is nothing to do, where the stretch of inaction is too much, where you see your own life wasting away? Miserable days of nothing at all? I can’t imagine how it feels for a creature that belongs in the wild. Well—I guess I can. I suppose I was the second gator in that home. It would go insane and huff and groan and run around the home as quick as it could, gnashing at whatever it could, overturning furniture, slapping its tail against the wall until it bled. I wanted it to die. Not just for its own sake, but for mine. I wanted peace.

“That day, I felt the same as the gator did. So, I told her, ‘you’ve got to get rid of it. Me or him.’ I knew it’d be an easy decision. And mom’s crazy, like I said. She feared no consequences, no statute for child neglect was written in her mind, no Kyushu Penal Code existed to her. Japan laws didn’t apply. No lawyer named Yagami could scare her. There was only one loss: that fucking alligator. So she threw open the door, told me to get the fuck out, and this beautiful, fresh light came out of the threshold. It wasn’t dim, wasn’t sallow. It was the morning, I suppose, and there was a cool, sweet breeze. As my vision adjusted—I was scared at first, thought I was going blind—I made out this horizon of water, an endless blue that just went and went and went into this huge, yawning TV screen of sky. I can still see these streaky, golden clouds over the coast. Fuck, it was incredible. Wouldn’t you know it, we lived in a goddamn beach house? I didn’t know I couldn’t walk on water, since I’d only had showers, and couldn’t put together the image of the ocean as being the same as what came out of my showerhead. So my first shaky steps were towards the sea. Like a goddamn baby deer on my legs. When that didn’t work out, I turned, and I saw the city behind me. Which was also beautiful. There were so many people around, huge apartment complexes, telephone poles and clotheslines crossing, people riding their bikes, surf shops and restaurants, sidewalks where real humans walked.

“And I suppose that’s where the complacency ended. I suppose that’s when the anger grew, when I saw just what had been taken from me, when I was thrown into a group home and then left so I could integrate myself into a red light district, where no one was ever crowding me into a box, where there were myriad sensations at all times, where I was overwhelmed by options. The most appealing thing, to someone who’s been deprived his whole life, is always power. By the time I was a teenager, I was like you were. Furious, misled, fighting whatever I could. I wanted to beat up the prostitutes I bought, I wanted to snap necks and make money. I wanted to wear the most expensive clothing I could. Most of all, I wanted attention. I wanted eyes on me, and I wanted no one to be able to shove me in a box ever again. The yakuza offered me that. Sure, there’s a semblance of control, giving your life away to your boss. But when Matsugane and I exchanged sake—oh, yes, I was in Kamurocho by this time, trying to distance myself as far as possible from silence—I think he knew he was becoming _my_ underling, and not the other way around.”

Yagami sets down his gun and sits back. He puts his hands on his knees and stares, wide-eyed, at his own hands. Takes a deep breath. The booth, in accordance with Hamura’s story, feels too cramped. He feels the plastic and the black-out curtains closing in around him. He feels his heart racing, feels sick, dizzy with nausea.

“Did you ever kill the gator?”

“No. I should have, the poor thing.”

“Hamura, that’s—”

“Don’t give me any sympathy, it’s the last thing I want. Ah,” Hamura smirks, and envisions the penitentiary he’s destined for, “But it’s back in the box for me, isn’t it?”

*

With his hands parting Hamura’s thighs, Yagami pushes his lips up against his warm, loosened hole and laps at the rim.

He shouldn’t be doing this. They should be long past their weird, secret fling from Yagami’s lawyer days, where they’d share beers and cigarettes and beds. But he can’t help it. After Club Sega, Yagami had been in such a melancholy haze, that Hamura had grabbed his hand and treated him to a back-alley makeout session. It was impromptu, aggressive, his teeth tearing at Hamura’s mouth. _It was all a lie, you know. I’m just a good storyteller. Stop moping on my behalf. You idiot, you loser. You’re just as bad. Your life was worse than mine. Stop moping and let me suck your dick, like we used to. Before I get shut away. Never a better fuck than you._

_ Hamura, stop it._

_ Don’t tell me to stop._

_ We can’t do this. The case is coming up—and I—_

_ Fuck the case. I want you, Yagami. Let me have you. One last time._

_ Hamura, don’t._

_ Don’t tell me ‘don’t.’ Ta-Bo. Fuck me._

_ You’re not…_

_ Shut up. Here. Kiss my tongue again. Fuck me. Fuck my ass. The Hotel District’s right up north…_

_ Okay. Okay_.

Even if the childhood story was a lie, even if he’s using that incredibly elaborate story to earn Yagami’s sympathy and get into his pants, how is he to deny _himself_? Yagami has his morals, has his own sense of justice, but he’s been through so much. His hatred for Hamura in the past few weeks has dampened significantly. Whatever shit Hamura put him through—Yagami can still feel the burns from the explosion, his jaw still pops from the punches, he still feels his anger boil in his blood when he thinks of Kaito being shot—Yagami’s head swims with affection.

_Shit_.

What is he doing, eating his own cum out of this man, preparing to go again?

“You taste so good.”

Hamura lays his head back and lets out one of those deep, calm, half-amused chuckles, his eyes narrowed, “You’re tasting yourself.”

Yagami pushes his legs back and dips his tongue, as deeply as he can manage, into Hamura’s leaking hole. His hole is puffy and pink, used by Yagami’s thick jut of a cock. He’s already creampied him once, and he’s ready to go another round. His semen is mild-tasting, sweetish. Hamura’s getting old, but it doesn’t seem to have any effect on his cock, curved and thick despite an orgasm drying into the fuchsia sheets. It’s throbbing already, and whenever Yagami loudly sucks, producing a wet sound, it honest-to-god _twitches_.

They could have easily gone to one of their homes, but there’s something nostalgic about a love hotel. The first place Hamura took him, when Yagami was twenty-two, licking up the back of his neck, Yagami blushing and half-crying as he was fucked for the first time, KOJI1200 playing on the speakers, deep red walls glistening with a smattering of glitter, a bath in the middle of the room. It was cheesy, but Yagami liked it so much. He supposes that night has a lot to do with his nymphomania today. Now, he has Hamura pinned under him.

Whenever the cum has been cleaned out of Hamura’s ass, Yagami balances the pearly substance on his tongue, pulls away from him, and leans over to show Hamura the collection of semen in his mouth. Hamura looks disgusted for a moment, but he lets his mouth open all the same. It drips like egg-white upon his tongue, wet and sticky. Hamura waits until Yagami severs the line of spit-jizz with a pass of his tongue and swallows, showily.

They’re disgusting, but they’re meant for this.

Yagami hates himself but adores Hamura as he ducks his face into the sweaty joint of his neck and laps at his skin like a needy dog, whimpering and dragging his cock over Hamura’s strong, tan thigh.

Soon it’ll go pale, like moonlight, in the windowless cell.

He radiates heat, his skin shimmering with warmth, with sweat and sex, cologne mitigated by the salty aroma of his semen. Yagami could sleep in it, and he probably will, if he’s being honest with himself. There’s a pang of regret that goes through his heart at the thought that he’ll never be with Hamura like this again, that the sweetness of their _extremely_ bittersweet relationship is closing in on itself. Perhaps for the better, but his dick is weeping at its loss.

Literally.

The precum is beginning to gather in a sticky line where he humps Hamura’s leg. It smears shiny as fish scales in the glitzy overhead light that bathes them in that porn-set dreaminess. He wonders if it reminds Hamura of the dim jungle-light of his youth and another empathetic shudder goes through Yagami, causing him to loop his arm around his neck, gather him close and kiss him hard on the lips. Hamura sneers, and the wet shock of his teeth is rough and bruising.

He pulls away.

The impermanency of Hamura has Yagami feverish, worried.

“Bite me,” Yagami demands, arching to show off the column of his tan throat, shiny with sweat, his Adam’s apple bobbing and taut, “Bite me and leave a mark. More than a hickey.”

There’s a glint of suspicion in Hamura’s light eyes, but he props himself up on his elbow and leans up, attaching himself to Yagami’s pulse, biting down hard until the skin blooms with pain. There’s suction, too, and then the softest sound of a puncture. Hamura’s canines have dug a little divot into his skin.

The vampiric image doesn’t go unnoticed. Hamura really does sap Yagami’s time, and energy, and youth. He really _does_ prey on him, and he seems unstoppable.

And yet—

Yagami groans and pushes Hamura’s thighs to his chest, watches Hamura fall back onto the mountain of down pillows, looking like some princess cushioned by luxury. A trickle of blood seeps hot and thin down the side of his neck.

He angles the head of his cock at where Hamura’s already loose and needy, clenching up around empty air, so desperate to be full. Yagami doesn’t get to indulge in topping Hamura often. It’s only a fitting treat that he gets to raw him multiple times before he leaves, for good.

“Look at you,” Yagami says, breathless and reverent, “Disgusting old man.”

“You’re the one putting it in me.”

“I love this tight cunt,” Yagami hisses and slaps Hamura’s thigh in place of his asscheek. He’d have him on his hands and knees if he didn’t want to see that face so bad. Hamura slants a glare, but it’s noncommittal. His legs wrap around Yagami’s firm waist, and he yanks him down, close, fitting a hand in his mop of hair and pulling.

He still smells of lavender.

They’re so close, chest to chest, and Yagami sinks into his hot channel, his cock absolutely _pulsating_ inside him, like a heartbeat. Yagami can’t get his mouth off of him. It maps his forehead, kisses at his hairline where he can taste the unguent styling his hair inky and smooth, then goes to his cheek, the five-o-clock shadow scratchy and pleasant. They find his mouth again and they kiss, violent, as Yagami sinks down to his balls which are sensitive and which he wishes could stay on Hamura’s tongue, twenty-four-seven.

There’s something so _intimate_ about being pressed flush together like this. So different from the way Hamura keeps him at a distance as he fucks him until he’s crying. Yagami can feel everything inside Hamura—can feel the way his ass clenches around him, can feel the rattle of his breath, the jut of his hipbones, the ripple of his muscles as he tenses and relaxes, as he stretches out beneath him, luxuriating in the drag outward of Yagami’s cock. The clutch of his asshole pulls around it, like he doesn’t want Yagami to slip out of him.

When he starts thrusting in earnest, for the second time, Yagami’s balls slap against his ass and he pants, open-mouthed, adoring, his hands clutching at Hamura’s face, their lips sliding together. It’s too much, he can feel his heart thudding, can feel desperation making him heady and uncomposed.

“Ta-Bo,” Hamura mutters, heels digging into the dip of his spine, holding him there between his thighs, “You’re such a fucking pervert.”

“You started it,” he pants, hips snapping into Hamura almost brutally. Those silky inner walls massage his dick like nothing else, and Yagami’s eyes prickle with tears at the sensation—he’s so overwhelmed, sweat beads at his hairline. He has to bat his loose curls back again. They fall in his eyes.

“Slick your hair back for me. At the trial.”

“Don’t want you getting a boner in court.”

“You were so cute,” Hamura whispers, his hand going between his thighs to jack at his dick, which is rubbing against Yagami’s taut stomach, “Do you remember? You had these—_ah_… big eyes… and you had the fat aegyo sal beneath them, that made you look curious and boyish and angry. And perfect, cock-sucking lips. Wouldn’t shut the fuck up about law codes, though. And your suits and your neat hair, that college boy look—I was impressed. I’ve always liked that academic shit. Never—_hnn_… Got to be a—a part of it. But it’s stylish.”

Yagami laughs at the incredulity of it all, of fashion being on Hamura’s mind as Yagami’s fat cockhead batters his insides. He wishes he could see it, could see the window where he lets off his semen inside of Hamura, like the way they x-ray in hentai. He wants to see his cum splattering inside Hamura, marking him as his own.

The thought is enough, and he jerks his hips up tight, feet flexing on the mattress, as he digs his hips forward and lets off. The orgasm has him shaking, has his upper thighs feeling tight and tingly.

“You came?”

“Uhh—_hnn_… Uh-huh…” Yagami pants, softening and slipping out. He puts his hands over Hamura’s, encourages him to jerk himself off, already eager to eat out his spend again.

“Good,” Hamura sighs, and he twists his hand below his leaking cockhead while Yagami jerks his shaft near his balls. The base is so sensitive and full.

Yagami leans down to lick a line up it.

Hamura groans and lets his head fall back, his own cum painting his stomach. Yagami watches reverentially, eyes half-mast, face smeared with a layer of film, like they’ve been in a sauna together.

Hamura pants for a while, sweating out on the pile of pillows, Koro-Nyan pinned beneath his elbow, watching their indiscretion with his approving, gangster eyes.

“I like the taste of you,” Yagami tells him.

Hamura grins, teeth shiny as gunmetal, sharp as an alligator’s.

**Author's Note:**

> stan koji1200
> 
> this was a fulfilled commission and i apologize for the psychoanalytical bullshit i pulled w hamura i just Love Him So Much!!! i hope you enjoyed!!
> 
> [take my carrd](https://bibles.carrd.co/)


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